Letters from a dead consulting detective
by Succi
Summary: After the fall Sherlock leaves without bothering to say goodbye to Molly. She is angry and determined to forget about him, but then a mysterious postcard arrives and suddenly Molly finds herself being the pen pal of a deceased consulting detective staying in contact with him throughout his mission. But what will happen after his resurrection? – Set after S2.
1. Thank you

**A/N: The idea of doing a story in epistolary-style has intrigued me. So far I've always had more trouble writing Molly than Sherlock (believe it or not, but my inner sociopath is more developed than my inner shy pathologist). But with this story I struggled hard with what Sherlock's voice in a letter would be. Because on the one hand it's easier to write down what you feel than tell someone face to face, but on the other hand you have more time to contemplate what you want to say. There are no such things as slips of the tongue or a meaningful glance in a letter. Therefore, I guess, one has to read between the lines. Long story short: I hope Sherlock is not too OOC and this experiment has not gone totally wrong. I'll let you be the judge. **

**I'd like to thank Pipsis, who did a wonderful job helping me with my mistakes and had some great suggestions. **

**Disclaimer: Roses are red, violets are blue. I don't own them so please don't sue. **

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><p><span><strong>Thank you <strong>

"A letter is always better than a phone call. People write things in letters they would never say in person. They permit themselves to write down feelings and observations using emotional syntax far more intimate and powerful than speech will allow."  
>― Alice Steinbach, <em>Educating Alice: Adventures of a Curious Woman<em>

22nd June

I never thought I would do this again: write a diary – or let's call it a journal. That doesn't sound like I am a 13 year-old girl. Basically it's not so different from writing a blog, I guess, still it feels a bit strange. But since I've quit my blog a while ago and I feel like I still need to write down my thoughts in order to cope with everything, I've decided to give good old journal-writing a try. Yes, I thought about maybe starting another blog (under a different name), but I cannot risk putting all the stuff about Sherlock and his "suicide" out into the wide world of the internet. Additionally, I think I want to write about really private stuff here. And this is no one else's business.

I am not the only one who quit blogging. A few days ago, John made his last post on his infamous blog, saying goodbye to his best friend. I almost started to cry in front of the screen. I really wanted to comment on it, but I did not know what to say. I couldn't think of any words to ease his pain. Or let's say: I am not allowed to say the words that would make his pain go away.

I am a liar. I know that. Sherlock has made me one. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame him, because I've wanted to help him. But I have to admit it is hard; so very hard. The last few days have been a nightmare. After Sherlock's fall, he had been hiding in my flat for a few days – until after his funeral. It was weird having him here. I did not see much if him, because he stayed in my bedroom most of the time – at least at night. When I came home from work he was mostly sitting on the couch, his fingers steeped under his chin in thought – lost in his mind palace. When I tried for conversation, his answers (if there were any at all) were monosyllabic at best. At least he ate when I cooked dinner and he always had the breakfast I made him. Al least that's what I suspect, because it was gone when I came back from work.  
>I desperately wanted to help him, because I am sure he was sad and even afraid (of course, he would never admit that). God, he had just told his best friend goodbye! He was about to leave his life behind. But I didn't know what to do or say to make him feel better. The way he was behaving told me, he would not allow it. Even Toby tried to stay out of his way after two days of desperately trying to get Sherlock to pet him. On the night before the funeral, I just couldn't take it anymore and went over to him (he was sitting on the couch staring into space) and hugged him. What a fatal mistake! At first he let me hold him, but suddenly I felt his whole body tense and he shoved me away, as if my touch had hurt him. He shouted at me that I should let him be, that he did not want my pity. I was so shocked that I could not find a single word to say in my defence, so he just stormed into my bedroom and slammed the door. I was left standing in the middle of the sitting room and only when I felt something wet on my cheek I realized I was crying. No need to tell you that I had a more or less sleepless night…<p>

I did not see him on the morning of the funeral. I did not go there. I had taken a shift deliberately. I could not have taken it to look at Greg, Mrs Hudson and John standing by his grave crying. They probably wondered where I was. But then again, maybe they did not.  
>I am sure Sherlock went there. For when I came back home, there was dirt on his shoes that were in the hallway. It was so stupid of him to go there! Not only because one could have seen him, but also because it must have hurt him; watching John standing over his grave, totally broken… Why would he torture himself like that?<p>

I tried to talk to him that night. I knocked on his door – well actually my bedroom door – but he did not answer. I tried to open the door, but he had locked it. I asked him if he wanted anything, but all my tries were in vain. He remained silent. After some time I gave up and went to bed.

The next morning he was gone – just like that. I don't know what I've expected, but… That's not entirely true. I've expected at least a "thank you." Obviously even that was too much to ask for. And so he left me behind. Not that I've expected him to take me with him… Yet I cannot help but feel sad. Will he return? Will I ever see him again? How am I to face the others? Will I be able to pull it off? Will I be able to lie to them for… maybe forever?

Sherlock told me that it was crucial not to let anyone know that he was alive. It would put them into great danger. He told me I was protecting them by not telling them. I have no intention of endangering them, or letting Sherlock down, but I am not sure if I am strong enough. Strong enough to keep living this lie.

Maybe this is my opportunity; my opportunity to get over Sherlock Holmes once and for all. I should be mad at him for not even bothering to say "thank you" after all I've done for him. And not only in the past week, but what I have done for him in the past few years. I should hate him for leaving me behind with the burden of his secret – having to lie to the people I care about. That's what I should do! This is my chance to finally get over my childish infatuation with the detective in the silly hat. Once and for all. The world's only consulting detective is dead to the world and he will be dead to me too. This will make everything easier. I will try to do it like the others: move on.

29th June

My resolution of being mad at the world's only consulting detective lasted not even for a lousy week. Today I found a postcard from Paris in my mail. I was surprised, because I did not know any of my friends or colleagues were in Paris at the moment. When I turned the card around, I was taken aback. The only thing (apart from my address apparently) written on the postcard was:

__ _ … . … … . … .. .. … .. …. .. . .. … … . … .. … … .. . … .. …. . _ … _ . .. Thank you. _

And I would recognize the handwriting anywhere, because I have seen it correcting my grammar in autopsy reports many times. It was Sherlock's.


	2. A case of identity

**A/N: Thank you for all your reviews, alerts, etc. As always they have made me very happy. **

**A virtual hug for my beta Pipsis. THANK YOU! **

** to 101: Thank you very much! No, it's not a Morse code. I would not want it to make it that easy for you ;-) **

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><p><span><strong>A Case of Identity<strong>

"An empty envelope that is sealed contains a secret." – Stanislaw Jerzy Lec

1st July

Now what? My plan to forget Sherlock Holmes went down the drain. Not that I could ever really forget about him, but I tried to forget my feelings for him. I tried not to think about it, to move on, and then this damn postcard from Paris had arrived. But let me start from the beginning: Life goes on. Or so they say… I guess everyone desperately tries to see it that way. Everyone is coping in their own way: Greg dives into work and hardly ever goes home – so I've heard. I see him often now, when he comes to the morgue for a case. He never used to come that often – Sherlock always being the one coming down to the morgue. But now Greg shows up on a regular basis. We don't talk about IT, but when he thinks I can't see, he looks at me with sad eyes, as if he if having pity on me. I know he thinks I must be devastated, for he knew about my feelings for Sherlock. Hell, everyone knew. Except for the brilliant fool himself. Maybe… at least until Christmas… I definitely don't want to think about that. Anyway, I guess Greg feels obligated to pay me visits to see how I'm doing and to let me know that he is there for me. And it breaks me that he cares so much, when I should be the one consoling him. Because I can see that he blames himself for Sherlock's death. He feels responsible, because he doubted him, and if it was only for a second. I think Greg should not work so hard. But who am I to judge? I try to hide behind my work as well.

Whereas Greg tries to seek company (and maybe forgiveness?), John hides himself from the world. He's moved out of 221B (which was to be expected) and now lives in a small flat a bit further outside of London. I haven't heard or seen any of him – neither have the others. I know it sounds horrible, but I am a bit glad about it. That way I don't have to look into his sad eyes, see the pain in them and know that I am not allowed to say something to make it better. Does that make me a selfish and horrible person? Maybe.

I went to see Mrs Hudson yesterday. She invited me for tea. How could I say, "No," to that? She was lovely, as usual, but so sad at the same time. The lines of worry made her look older than she is. She even started crying at some point and I hugged her, trying to ease her pain a bit, knowing it was impossible. She told me that she could not bear the thought of going upstairs or even renting out the place; at least not yet. I told her I understood, because I was sure it was hard to find a new tenant who would treat the wall and furniture with equal respect as Sherlock. The made her chuckle and the rest of the tea was spent with small talk. I think she feels a bit disappointed that John just walked away without a word and that he has not even called so far. I can imagine how empty and lonely 221B must feel for her now.  
>When we said out goodbyes she took my hand and told me, "He may not have showed it and he may not have said it, but I know he trusted you and he cared about you." I thanked her and tried my best to keep the tears under control until I was out of her sight. I know she felt (still feels) very maternal about John and Sherlock. Why else would she refer to them as "my boys"?<br>I promised to visit from time to time and I want to keep my promise. Although it isn't easy for me, I think I can actually be a bit of a solace for Mrs Hudson.

And then today it happened again. I got mail from him. And I know it must be him, because who else would send me an empty envelope? Yes, he sent me an empty envelope. Again (like with the postcard) there was not even a stamp on it. There was only my address and the sender on the backside was indicated as followed:  
>10 2275866 46873 8377223 566366 7919 524<br>What is that supposed to mean? Why would he send me some numbers? It is not a phone number, obviously. They are not coordinates either. And the weird lines and dots on the postcard were no Morse code. Do they belong together the numbers and the lines and dots? But what can it be? Or does it mean nothing at all? Is it a cry for help? Is it a trick? Should I contact Mycroft? But how? It's not like I have his number… I don't even know where he works or lives. Since there are no stamps on them, maybe I should watch my mailbox. Someone from his homeless network must have delivered the letter. But I cannot take time off work to watch my mailbox the whole day. I'd like to see Mike's face when I tell him I needed a day off from work for a stakeout… of my mailbox…  
>But Sherlock must have been sure I could figure out what it means, otherwise he would not have send that to me, would he? Oh, how I wish I was not alone in this! I wish someone could help me.<p>

How am I supposed to forget you, Sherlock Holmes, when you keep coming back into my life, even after your death?!


	3. A tale of two brothers

**A/N: Just to avoid confusion: The initials MH in this chapter stand for Mycroft Holmes. **

**To 101: Don't worry, the explanation of the cypher is not in this chapter. And I am looking forward to new suggestions from you what it might mean ;-) A little tip: I has something to do with an item that Sherlock carries around with all the time… **

**Thanks again to my beta Pipsis. You rock! **

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><p><span><strong>A tale of two brothers<strong>

"All letters of love are  
>ridiculous.<br>They wouldn't be love letters if they were not  
>ridiculous."<br>― Fernando Pessoa

She figured it out. MH

I told you so. SH

She was faster than I thought. MH

You thought she could not decode the cypher at all. SH

It was a rather childish one. Even Father could have cracked it. MH

Yet still you thought she could not do it. But she did. Which means you were wrong. Admit it. SH

Does that make you happy, brother mine? MH

Yep. SH

Now, did you tell her how to proceed? SH

Of course. I told her if she wanted to contact you she just had to throw the letter into the rubbish bin beside the telephone booth at St Bart's. The rest would be taken care of. MH

Did you instruct her not to write anything on the envelope? SH

Do you think me an idiot? MH

I assume that was a rhetorical question. SH

I'm glad to see your mission has not lessened your scathing humour. MH

So I take you did tell her about the plain envelope? SH

Yes. MH

Good. SH

Always at your service, brother mine. MH

Sure… SH

Do you really think it wise to become the pen pale of Miss Hooper now of all times? MH

This is none of your business. SH

Since I am about to play post man I do think it is. MH

Don't be ridiculous! As if YOU would condescend to do any footwork. SH

Still, they are my men who have better things to do than delivering love letters from you to your pathologist. MH

Obviously they don't. And they are NOT love letters. SH

If you say so. MH

Don't give me that. Or should I quote some passages from the text feed between you and Anthea? What do you call her? My little goldfish… SH

You would not dare to go there. MH

Additionally, most of the people involved are from my homeless network. So do me a favour and stop whining and enjoy the rest of your endodontic treatment. SH

It's almost the same pleasure as talking to you. MH

Give Anthea my regards. SH

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><p><strong>AN: Short I know. But with the next chapter we'll finally start with the letters between Molly and Sherlock. And don't worry there will be a proper explanation of the cypher. **


	4. The scarlet letter

**A/N: Thanks again to you all for reading and reviewing and of course to Pipsis my awesome beta! **

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><p><span><strong>The Scarlet Letter<strong>

"Venerable are letters, infinitely brave, forlorn, and lost."  
>― Virginia Woolf, <em>Jacob's Room<em>

12th July

Hello, I hope this finds you well. Since I am not sure if it is safe to use names, I'll just leave it without proper salutation. I hope you won't think it's rude…  
>How are you? I know you don't like small talk, but I'd really like to know how you are doing. Where are you at the moment? Since your postcard was from Paris, I figure you were there. But are you still there? Did you climb the Eiffel Tower? What a stupid question! You're not there for a holiday. Are you even allowed to tell me where you are?<br>I am sorry about the weird colour of the paper. I did not have any plain white paper at home and I did not want to use some squared paper from a sketch book. I don't think it's appropriate for a letter. But this was the only paper I could find. I bought it for crafting once. Therefore I'm writing on scarlet paper. I'll make sure to buy normal paper for the next letter. If you'll want me to write you another letter, that is.

Thank you for the postcard. And I wanted to tell you, "You're welcome." I am glad I could help you. So let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.

I'll be honest: I haven't expected to hear from you - especially not to get a postcard or a letter. Don't get me wrong, I really appreciate it, though. That way I know that you are... alive. I admit it's a bit weird writing you. I really don't know what to tell you… Nothing out of the ordinary has happened since you've left. I guess that's because most of the extraordinary stuff comes with you. Most of the autopsies have not been really interesting, just routine. Mainly heart attacks; and even the ones that did not die of a natural cause would have been boring for you. They were just the usual: domestic violence, stabbing, one poisoning (with strychnine, I mean, who does that nowadays?), … BTW: I'll keep looking after your cultures. Your experiment about coagulation of saliva after death looks promising. I am certain it will bring new insights that could be useful for forensics. I wonder why no one thought about conducting such an experiment before?  
>I reckon you have neither the time nor the space to do some experiments where you are now, do you? Has everything gone according to the plan so far? Do you have any idea how long your mission will take? Do you have help, or are you on your own? I figure your brother is helping you?<p>

Here in London, your suicide has finally moved from the cover to page 13, but they are still writing about it and most of it is not very nice. I hate reading the articles of this stupid woman Kitty Riley, who invents all this mean things about you. How can a person do that? Doesn't she even consider that the things she says about you might actually hurt someone? Isn't it enough that her lies about you have driven you to commit suicide? Well, not really, but you know what I mean... Slowly there are rumours heard about government conspiracies concerning your death. Some weird people started posting all kinds of theories on the internet, assuming that the government had something to do with it. Funny isn't it that they are right in some way? I'm looking forward to some theories about you being abducted by aliens.  
>But I am positive that they will stop gossiping about it soon. In my opinion they keep writing about it still because of the silly season. And tabloids have always liked writing about you. And it seems as if they even enjoy it more now that you are some kind of fallen hero (no pun intended).<p>

Since I don't want to bother you any more with small talk (knowing how you detest it), and I am sure you have more important things to do than reading long letters, I'll stop now.  
>I hope you're safe and doing well and like I've said before: Let me know if there is anything I can help you with.<p>

Best wishes from me and Toby.


	5. No American in Paris

**A/N: Thank you all for your support with this story. And thank you to my wonderful beta Pipsis. I really appreciate the time and energy she invests in helping me. **

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><p><span><strong>No American in Paris <strong>

"An isolated person requires correspondence as a means of seeing his ideas as others see them, and thus guarding against the dogmatisms and extravagances of solitary and uncorrected speculation. No man can learn to reason and appraise from a mere perusal of the writing of others. If he live not in the world, where he can observe the public at first hand and be directed toward solid reality by the force of conversation and spoken debate, then he must sharpen his discrimination and regulate his perceptive balance by an equivalent exchange of ideas in epistolary form."  
>― H.P. Lovecraft<p>

22nd July

Molly,

Rest assured that this way of communication is absolutely safe otherwise I would not have bothered to contact you at all. And if it were not safe, the way you have written your first letter, would have given away too much. So people would not have needed names to guess who you were talking about or who you or I were, for that case. So you can use names all you like. But I honestly don't care about the salutation.

Please do stop apologizing. I don't care on which paper you write on. As long as you refrain from using stationary with baby animals on it, I am fine with it.

Thanking me for the postcard is unnecessary, for it was only a means to an end. I needed an inconspicuous way to send you the first part of the cypher, and a postcard seemed like the most efficient way to do so.

You asked me if I am allowed to let you know where I am. Who should forbid me to tell you? As you have rightly assumed, I am still in Paris. And no, I neither have time nor interest in participating in touristy stuff like climbing the Eiffel Tower or taking pictures of the Arc de Triomphe. I have been to the Louvre, but after closing time, of course. The mass of stupid people wandering from room to room only looking for Da Vinci's enigmatic smiling woman (and in the end most of them are disappointed, because they imagined the painting to be much bigger) is just unbearable. But at night the museum can be quite a nice place. Not because of the picture, I don't particularly care about most of the art there, but because of the silence. It's a good place to think.

I've come to Paris to meet with an American contact, but he seems to have vanished. I've been busy trying to find him and two days ago I finally succeeded. I found his body. But I have been lucky, because I found some evidence on the crime scene, which will lead me to the murderer eventually, who is part of Moriarty's network.

I don't know how long it will take to dismantle Moriarty's network. I am still in the process of figuring out how big it really is. The only thing I know for sure is that his men are widely scattered all over Europe and probably even further than that. Time will tell.

Too bad that most of your autopsies are dull routine, I was hoping for some interesting ones. But now you can relate to how hard it was for me to find cases above a 7, or even some that were worth leaving the house. People are so uninventive in killing someone. Like you've said: Strychnine – that's so 19th century…

I would appreciate it if you would document the experiment about coagulation of saliva after death very accurately. Otherwise I cannot use the data. Probably no one has thought about conducting that experiment before, because not many people share my intellect and interest in forensics. Most people don't value it. The same goes for my study on tobacco ash. People still don't see the importance and relevance of that study. Common people are ignorant.

It was to be expected that the tabloids would jump at the chance to sully my name. I don't care what they say about me and neither should you. I don't understand: If reading that crap upsets you, why were you reading it in the first place? And yes, Kitty Riley is stupid, but we were able to use her stupidity to our advantage. You can always count on people's ignorance. Let's be glad that no one is as clever as I am.  
>It's obvious why they are still writing about it, because it sells, apparently. Like you have said, I have always been a person of public interest. And people have always been more interested in the silly hat and giving me stupid nicknames than what I did for them. Therefore your narration about the type of the articles about my death does not surprise me at all.<br>I don't see why you would be looking forward to a story about me being abducted by aliens. There is no such thing as an alien abduction. You as a scientist really should know better. And even if there was such a thing: Why would they abduct me? Why choose me? The chances of that to happen are highly improbable.

I am more or less on my own in this. I am in contact with Mycroft, of course, but he is busy waging war somewhere or playing chess with himself. I never did and still don't expect any help from him. I would be foolish do to so. The more people are pulled into this, the more dangerous it will get for me. Moriarty has a vast network and spies and allies everywhere. I'll need to be very careful and cannot trust anyone. But since I am used to do things on my own, I don't mind. It is even better. That way I don't have to look out for someone else, or bother to answer dull questions or be slowed down by someone not keeping up. It's refreshing.

Sherlock


	6. Sunday in the park with Mycroft

**A/N: Thanks again to all of you! Finally the solution of the cypher... ;-) I am sorry it does not look as it was supposed to look (you'll now what I'm talking about once you'll see it), but FF format won't allow me to put the letters under the numbers and the numbers under the dots. Only the last line of the cypher looks like it is supposed to. But I hope you'll understand the concept none the less. **

**A bear hug to Pipsis, my lovely beta! **

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><p><span><strong>Sunday in the park with Mycroft <strong>

"I write letters to you that you'll never see."  
>― Jennifer Elisabeth<p>

23rd July

Quite a lot has happened since my last entry. I know I should write on a more regular basis, but I just couldn't find the time. Anyway… After getting the postcard from Paris and the empty envelope with the numbers on it from Sherlock, I found it hard to occupy myself with something else than thinking about it. What was it supposed to mean? I was sure the lines and dots on the post card and the numbers on the envelope were somehow related, but I just couldn't figure out how. It was so frustrating! Secretly I had been hoping that maybe he (or Mycroft or one of his homeless network) would send me another clue, or help me out somehow. But nothing happened. There were no new messages, no phone calls in the middle of the night with no one on the other end of the line, … Well that may be a cliché, but still… I was hoping for some kind of support. Since there was none I got more and more frustrated as days went by. The frustration turned into anger – at myself for not finding the solution and at Sherlock himself, for putting me into this position.

One night I was going through my texts and deleting some old massages (because my mobile is getting slow because of all the saved messages), when I stumbled across the text feed between me and a certain consulting detective. As you can imagine the messages are mostly very short and never personal – always work related. But I could not bring myself to delete a single message from him, not even the most useless ones like, "Fetch me the matches." And while I got even angrier at myself for not deleting even the rudest texts, I started to think about Sherlock's obsession with his mobile that was practically glued to his hand. If he'd ever have a love affair, then with his mobile. And suddenly it hit me: The cypher was related to the phone. I retrieved the envelope and the postcard from my bag (yes, I have been carrying them around with me all the time) and put them next to my mobile. I had been staring at the weird messages about a hundred times before, and they'd never been more to me than peculiar symbols, but suddenly it all made sense. The numbers stood for the numbers on the keypad of my mobile and the lines and dots for the number of times I had to press them in order to get the right letter. It may sound a bit complicated, but it wasn't. It became even easier after I wrote the numbers under the dots. And then it looked pretty much like that:

_ _ ... . ... ... . ... .. .. ... .. ... .. . .. ... ... . ... .. ... ... .. . ... .. ... . _ ...

10 2275866 46873 8377223 566366 79199

10 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE LONDON SW1Y

__ . .. _  
>5 2 4<br>5 A H

It was an address: 10 Carlton House Terrace London, SW1Y 5AH. Sherlock had sent me an address. And now I wondered what I should do with it. Being a woman of the 21st century, I googled it, of course. I could not really find out more than that it was a building near St. James's Park and built in eighteen something. I looked for the fastest way to get there from my flat and decided to go there first thing in the morning. As you can imagine, I had a rather sleepless night, counting the hours until dawn.

Sunday morning, standing in front of the white building of 10 Carlton House Terrace I was once again clueless. The thing is: Looking for a sign and not knowing what the sign is supposed to be doesn't really make it easy. So I looked around the area to maybe find something that looked out of place, or which would strike me as odd. But of course I didn't find anything of that kind. When I was about to give up and head back home, a voice behind me made me jump, "Good morning, Miss Hooper. I'm glad you've found your way here." I turned around to the owner of the voice (which did not sound glad at all) and looked into the bored eyes of Mycroft Holmes. He was leaning on his umbrella and clearly enjoying my surprise. Before I could utter some sort of greeting, he suggested, "Let's walk, Miss Hooper, shall we?" It did not really come across like a suggestion, but more like a command. Without waiting for a reply he started to walk down in the direction of St James's Park. Since I saw no reason for objecting him, I followed. We walked side by side for a few minutes and I was waiting for him to explain everything to me, but he remained silent. I grew impatient, but after a few minutes, I couldn't take it anymore. "Mr Holmes," I started, but he interrupted me.  
>"Mycroft, please. My brother's friends are my friends as well." He did not even bother to look at me, but kept walking and the way he had said it, I was not sure if he was joking, mocking me, or making fun of his absent brother. Either way, I tried my best not to show my irritation and continued, "Mycroft, what is this all about?"<br>He sighed and kicked some stone that was lying on the path away with the tip of his umbrella.  
>"My brother likes drama and being mysterious. He thinks that makes him more interesting."<br>I did not know what to reply to that, so I waited patiently for him to continue, which he did after another heavy sigh, "If you wish to stay in contact with him – which I assume you do – you can do so by writing letters. Just throw them into the dustbin next to the phone booth in front of St Bart's." I could not believe that I had heard him correctly, so I asked to clarify, "I should throw them into the dustbin?"  
>"Yes."<br>"But…," I wanted to say a the letter would get lost in there, but he cut me off, "Let that be of our concern." Before I could ask another question, he went on, "Always put the letter in a plain envelope. Don't write anything on it. Do you understand?" He sounded like he was talking to a two-year-old and that made me a bit angry. Still I answered, "Yes, I do. A plain envelope."  
>He nodded and kept walking. Silence settled again. I wanted to ask him where Sherlock was, if he was okay, if I could do anything for him, but when I had finally gathered up the courage to ask at least one of those questions, I realized that we had left St James's Park and were standing in front of 10 Carlton House Terrace again.<br>"Well, then, good day, Miss Hooper," Mycroft said, nodded and went inside the white building. I must have mumbled something in kind, but I am not sure. It took me a few moments to process what had just happened, before my feet dragged me back to the underground. That had been the weirdest morning walk in my life.

Back home I sat down and started to write a letter to Sherlock. It felt weird. Not only because I had not written a letter in years, but because I was not sure what to write. Sherlock had never been one for small talk, but what more was there to write, when I wasn't even sure if it was safe to use names? Somehow I managed to fill the page and put the paper into a plain envelope without address or sender on it. I could hardly wait for the next day to post the letter, because I thought it might have looked suspicious if I had gone to Bart's on my day off. Therefore I did it the next day. As instructed I threw the envelope into the dustbin. And I've got to admit: I had my doubts. What if Mycroft had just made fun of me? And then the waiting started. Every time I passed the dustbin, I had to look at it. I don't even know why. It was not like Sherlock's reply would come out of it. I had to fight the urge to have a look inside if my letter was still in there. But then I found another plain envelope in my mailbox. It was from him. I flew over the page and it occurred to me that this was the longest note, text (…?), he had ever sent to me. And that thought made me happy. He told me that it was okay to use names. But if it was safe to use names, then why the cypher in the first place? Was it because Mycroft was involved? Or because it was not safe at first? Or was it some kind of test? Or is it like Mycroft had said: Sherlock likes to be mysterious? Whatever the reason, it goes without saying that I am so happy to have heard from him! Although he did answer most of my questions, he did not ask any himself. And he did not get my joke about the alien abduction. He has not answered my question if he wants me to write him another letter, but since he did not tell me not to, I guess he wants me to continue writing. And he said in the first paragraph "your first letter", so I assume this indicates that he expects me to write more letters. Or am I interpreting way too much into this? I know women are very good in that, and I am an expert in that field.

I find it peculiar that he did not ask about John or the others. But like I said, he has not asked any questions. Maybe it hurts him too much to think about them? Maybe I should just tell him? Sherlock has never been someone to ask for anything. He just takes whatever he wants and expects everyone to give it to him freely. What's the worst that could happen if I'll tell him? If he doesn't want to know, he can just skip the paragraph… Well, I guess, I'll sit down and write another letter to Sherlock Holmes then.

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><p><strong>AN: I shamelessly borrowed the cypher from **_**Prison Break**_**. And I could not help the **_**Downton Abbey **_**reference.  
><strong>


	7. Previously on: Life without you

**Thanks again for all the support. I makes me so happy that you are enjoying this story. **

**Thank you to my beta Pipsis! **

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><p><span><strong>Previously on <strong>_**Life without you **_

"But you're asleep, and you're a few miles away, and I have no means to get to you right now, so I'm writing."  
>― Darnell Lamont Walker, <em>Creep<em>

24th July

Dear Sherlock,

Thank you for your last letter. How's the weather? I am glad to hear that you are doing well – or at least as well as you can do under these circumstances. I am sorry to hear that your American contact had been killed, but I am sure you have managed to find the murderer in the meantime; and maybe a new lead to Jim's - I mean - Moriarty's network.  
>As you can see, I've bought some stationary – with <span>no <span>baby animals on it. So no more scarlet letters...  
>Don't worry about your experiments, I will document them well. After all, I am used to that, because it' part for my job.<p>

When I wrote I was looking forward to reading some stories about you being abducted by aliens, I was merely joking. I don't believe in such a thing either. And that's why I find it so amusing that some people do. And I am sure some people will start posting such ridiculous theories soon.

While reading your letter, I realized that you did not ask about John or the others. Should I tell about them? Do you want to know? I am sure you do, but maybe you did not have the time to ask about them in your letter. I can imagine you are pretty busy. Well, I figure, I'll just tell you some things and if you're not interested, or… you know… you can just skip the next few lines. So here is the how-everyone-is-coping-paragraph:

Let's start with Greg: He more or less hides himself behind his work. He comes to the morgue more often these days, because he thinks he needs to check up on me. From what I have heard from his colleagues, he often sleeps in his office and things between him and his wife are strained again. I'm afraid, if he carries on like that they will get divorced. Didn't you predict that last year? But maybe it's for the best for both of them. I doubt they have been happy in their marriage for quite some time now. Greg tries to solve his cases in record time – like trying to compensate for your absence. So, don't worry, New Scotland Yard is in good hands.

Your "friend" from forensics and your "favourite" detective sergeant have split up. And you won't believe what the reason was: you! Anderson has gone through a dramatic change since your fall. He feels responsible for what has (supposedly) happened to you and wanted Donavan to feel the same. But since she still thinks you were a – and I quote – "self-righteous bastard", Anderson ended the relationship. But don't worry, he has already found himself a new occupation in his spare time: He founded this fan club; it's called _The Empty Hearse_. If you happen to spare a minute or two, look it up on the net. It's so weird! Anderson and his followers have all this peculiar theories about your death going on. Anderson is convinced that you are still alive. Of course he has approached me and asked me if I wanted to join _The Empty Hearse_. As you can imagine, I politely declined. It was really strange, because the way he looked at me when I told him no, I could swear he suspected something. Don't worry, I did not say anything and I am sure I played my part the best I could, yet still Anderson's behaviour is a bit disturbing.

I had tea with Mrs Hudson the other day. She misses you, of course, but she is doing fine. We had a nice chat and I promised to visit her again. And I'm planning on doing that on a regular basis. She is an old lady, after all, and she needs some company. Don't worry about your flat. I don't think she will lend it out any time soon.

And finally there is John. As it was to be expected he has moved out of 221B and now lives in a flat a bit further outside. I have not seen any of him lately and neither have the others. I guess he needs some time to cope with everything. But that was to be expected, wasn't it? He just needs some time to grieve. We all do, and everyone does it in their own way. John chose to grieve alone. I understand and respect that. And I think we should give him the time he needs, don't you agree? And I am sure after that, he will be his old self again. As you have probably seen, he has stopped blogging. I guess he needs some distance from your time together – and that includes distance from us. Times are not easy, but John is strong. He has gone through traumatic experiences before. He will be okay.

End of the how-everyone-is-coping-paragraph.

Yesterday I had the first interesting corpse since weeks: I had to do the post mortem on a woman called Julia Stoner (I remember reading one of your cases on John's blog where there was a woman of the same name; funny coincidence, isn't it?). The circumstances of her death were unknown, because she had been alone in her room at night. Her sister had come running to her when she had heard her scream. But by the time she had reached her room, her sister had fallen lifelessly into her arms. Their step father – a rich man traveling to East Africa and India on a regular basis and collecting all kinds of exotic animals - had called the ambulance, but she had been DOA. It was obvious that she had seized before her death. And since I could not find any traces of external forceful impact, I checked for poison. But the results have been negative. I have to admit I am a bit at a loss, and so are the police. The step father is known to be a rude man, but had neither motive nor opportunity. It is quite a strange case, because it is for certain that Julia was on her own in her room when she died. Do you have any ideas?

Well then, I'll leave you be.

Yours,

Molly


	8. Himalayas

**A/N: Love, hugs and sunshine to all the lovely reviewers, alerters (is that a word?), … You are brilliant!  
>Pipsis, thank you for coping with my mistakes and you attention to detail – it was crucial for the next two chapters. <strong>

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><p><span><strong>Himalayas<strong>

"Now everybody who knows anything at all knows perfectly well that even a business letter does not deserve the paper on which it is written unless it contains at least one significant phrase that is worth waking up in the night to remember and think about."  
>― Eleanor Hallowell Abbott, <em>Molly Make-Believe<em>

6th August

Molly,

Why would you be interested in the weather conditions here? Until you'll get that letter, the weather would have changed. Additionally it would be easier and more accurate to just look it up on the internet. Conversations about the weather are for boring people. You are not one of them, so don't pretend to be.

Why are you telling me about this Greg-guy as if I should know him? What makes you think I am interested in gossip about a person I don't know? Please clarify. And how come you think he (he's a detective with New Scotland Yard, obviously) would be able to compensate my absence? That's ridiculous. Even if he doessolve the cases in record time, it doesn't mean that he's got the murderer. One thing why Scotland Yard needed my help on a regular basis was, because they got the wrong guy. And I don't see any reason why that should have changed during the short time of my absence. Maybe it would have, if this Greg would have my skills and intellect. But that is highly unlikely. Therefore I would appreciate some specification on that paragraph of yours. Accuracy in every day conversation has never been your forte, but please try to be more precise in your explanations.

As for Donovan and Anderson: Their relationship was never meant to last, so their break up does not surprise me in the least. But I have to admit that I find it amusing that I am the reason for it. And I have to give Donovan some credit: at least she sticks to her opinion about me. Anderson's reaction just proves to me that I was right in assuming he was a whining, little idiot. I looked up _The Empty Hearse _on the internet. It is unbelievable with what people waste their time. Don't they have anything else to do than make up ridiculous theories about a person they don't even know? Obviously not. I sincerely hope you have no plans in participating in any of this nonsense? The good thing about it is that it is all so farfetched that no one will take it seriously. Even if they could figure out how it was done (which they won't), no one would believe them.

The thing Mrs Hudson probably misses the most, is having someone to annoy with her overly-maternal behaviour. Don't worry about her being lonely. She has found company in the new owner of _Speedy's. _At least this one is not married... Of course she will not look for a new tenant for 221B. She won't be able to find a better one than me, and she knows that. I am non- replaceable. But I am afraid she might clean my flat and ruin my order. She has never understood how important it was for me that she would keep the things where I had put them. She was blind to my well-considered system and the smell of her polish was unbearable. Sometimes she would clean while I was away, thinking that I would not notice. Ridiculous. As if I would not notice when my flat smelt of artificial lemon. Would you please have a look at the flat the next time you visit her in order to check on Billy? I fear she might throw him away. She has never been very fond of him. Just tell her you would like to get some things back that you have borrowed me for some experiments. She will give you the key and won't follow you upstairs.

The case of Julia Stoner seems quite obvious to me. I did some googleing on the stepfather and it seemed like his deceased step daughter was about to marry and according to the last will of her mother, would inherit all her money if she did. There you got your motive. You told me the step father had a collection of exotic animals and travelled to India on a regular basis. Is one of his "pets" a _Proatheris superciliaris_? They are the most venomous snakes in India, their poison kills within minutes and is broken down by the body within a few hours – therefore unverifiable. Did no one think about that? All you have to do is look for tiny bite marks on the body, check if such an animal is in the step father's possession (which will be the case) and find the hole in the wall or ceiling of Miss Stoner 's room where the snake could have entered (opportunity). Case closed. I wonder how you will be able to deal with the easiest cases while I am gone.

I have moved on and am not in Paris anymore. Actually I am far from France. Some evidence has led me to the Himalayas, where I infiltrated a sect of Buddhist warrior monks. I knew the head of a drug smuggling ring was hiding there. It only took me two days to find her. Yes, you have read correctly. The head of the drug smuggling ring was a woman. As you can imagine, it was not hard to detect a blonde woman in a monastery among bald monks. Even Lestrade could have done that.

Sherlock

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><p><strong>AN: As you will have undoubtedly realized, I am building a story around what we know Sherlock did in his absence according to **_**Many happy returns**_**. **


	9. Non-replaceable

**A/N: Thanks for all your encouraging reviews, because I am still a bit unsure about it – doing a story in epistolary style is something totally different… **

**Pipsis, I bow to you. Because of you my reference to **_**The speckled banner **_**makes sense. **

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><p><span><strong>Non-replaceable <strong>

"To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart."  
>― Phyllis Theroux<p>

12th August

Dear Sherlock,

How dare you accuse me of not being precise in every day conversations?! You don't even know how to do small talk! The fact that you did not understand why I was telling you about Greg did not derive from me being ambiguous, but from the fact that you don't find it important enough to remember things like first names. Because if you did, you would have realized that I was talking about DI Greg Lestrade. Sometimes I wonder if you constantly forget his first name on purpose... I can only assume that you were joking. Since I know one of your hobbies it to nick Lestrade's police ID, you surely know his first name.

Of course I am not planning on joining _The Empty Hearse. _Why would I do such a thing? I have already told you that I have declined Anderson's offer. Do you think I have changed my mind? I find it as ridiculous as you do – maybe even more. But I would be lying if I said I did not find it disturbing that some of the theories come quite close to the truth. But I guess you are right: Most of them are so weird that no one will take them seriously. At least I hope so. BTW: Papers have finally stopped writing about you. Even "Hello" Kitty has found a new victim. Maybe it has something to do with Anderson. Because rumour has it that he has threatened her, he would bring forth some delicate secret of her past if she won't stop writing this lies about you. Seems like it has worked.

You are (were?) in the Himalayas? Wow. I've always wanted to go there since I've read _Seven years in Tibet_. I find the culture in Tibet and Nepal very interesting, although I would not want to climb the Mount Everest. I am not really into hiking or climbing. Though I am sure the view from the top is breath taking. But once again, I know you're not there for vacation. Yeah, a blonde woman between bald monks doesn't seem too hard to spot. But I am sure she hid herself well behind locked doors and a cloak. A woman running a smuggler ring? I've always thought about men being the big boss. Looks like feminism has finally reached organized crime as well. I am not so sure if I should feel proud about that…

Since I don't have any stories about ninja-monks to tell, you will have to put up with the narration of my boring life in London: On Friday I was invited to a party of some friends. Their names are Sue and Richard and I have known them since Uni. Although they are a couple they are bearable and so I decided to go to the party. There were quite a lot of people there, including some friends I hadn't seen in years and some people I had never seen before. Sue introduced me to a guy called Tom. We chatted for some time and had a few drinks. He was nice. He works at a small book store on Shaftsbury Avenue. He has got a dog, an older sister and he asked me out for the next weekend. He wants to take me to a pub down Cowcross Street. Since it's close to Bart's I know there are a few nice ones there. So, I'm looking forward to it.

About your flat: I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I guess everyone was blind to your "system". Don't get me wrong, I like your flat, but it has always been a messy place, with all this paper lying around and the experiments in your kitchen...

I have done what you've wanted me to and asked Mrs Hudson to let me into 221B to get back some lab equipment. She did like you've predicted and gave me the key, but did not follow me upstairs after she had asked me if I was okay with going alone. I had a look around your flat and it seemed like she had not touched anything. It did not smell of artificial lemon and there was a thin layer of dust on the coffee table, so I don't think you'll have to worry. Billy is still safe on the mantelpiece, surveying the flat. For a moment I thought about taking him with me, but then I could not think of a way to get him out of the flat without Mrs Hudson noticing. He was too big to hide him under my coat and I did not know what to tell Mrs Hudson if she were about to ask why I wanted to take the skull with me. She told me that she had not touched anything in the flat – apart from some things in the fridge that she had to throw away, because they looked "hazardous" and she feared they would "come to life and eat" her. Additionally she told me that she did not plan on throwing anything away. I am sure that Billy and the rest of your possessions are perfectly safe. What about Billy anyway? Where does he come from? Why do you have him standing on the mantelpiece? Does he hold some kind of sentimental value to you? Or does he remind you of something special?

Thank you so much for the help with the case of Miss Stoner. I looked for the bite marks and found them on her right upper arm. When I told Greg (Lestrade) about my findings and that I thought I had some theory about the circumstances of the crime, he looked at me quite sceptical. Nevertheless he went back to the crime scene for further investigations. It turned out that there had been a hole in the wall of the bedroom of Miss Stoner, through which her stepfather had sent the snake (he had trained the _Proatheris superciliaris_, which is endemic to East Africa and not India, by the way). It had bitten the poor woman. After it had turned out that all your assumptions had turned out to be true, Lestrade came back to the morgue and told me, "Sherlock could not have done it any better."  
>You were right: You are non- replaceable.<p>

Yours,

Molly

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><p><strong>AN: This has been an interesting experience so far, because it feels a bit like being my own pen pal ;-) **


	10. New Delhi

**A/N: Again, all my love to the lovely people here who support me and this story, and to my beta Pipsi.  
>Let's see what Sherlock has to say about Tom… <strong>

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><p><span><strong>New Delhi<strong>

"It crossed my mind that my letters are all about me and not you. I would hope that you pay me the same respect."  
>― Bill Callahan, <em>Letters to Emma Bowlcut<em>

22nd September

Molly,

I have left the Himalayas behind and am now in New Delhi. (I have never written anything about ninja-monks. How do you come up with that peculiar combination?! There is no such a thing.) In my time between waiting for a contact I passed my time with solving a local case. Maybe you have seen the press conference of Inspector Prakesh on the news. He is a good man, but the police here are just as useless as ours back in London. One of the forensic guys would be a serious threat to Anderson in case of stupidity. Anyway, the police were not able to find the murderer of a woman, because – as usual – they did not observe. In order to find the killer I only had to calculate the distance the chocolate flake had sunk into the victim's ice-cream cone. It was as easy as that. (I remember quite a similar case involving the family Abernetty) When will the police realize that all it takes to solve a case is pay attention to details? It was like the time when Lestrade told me they had solved the case, because they had found the murderer and I had to explain to him that finding the killer and solving the case were not the same.

Concerning Lestrade's first name: This information is not vital. I have to delete some boring information from time to time in order to save more important ones. So far Lestrade has been fine with me calling him by his surname. And even if he weren't, I would not mind. Names in general don't matter much to me. They are just some arrangements of consonants and vowels. What does it matter if your name is Molly or Sally? Names don't tell you anything about a person.

I hope Anderson does not expect me to be grateful for his attempt at blackmailing Kitty Riley. (Why are you referring to her as "Hello" Kitty?) I don't need or expect him to defend me. I am perfectly capable of doing that myself. If I had wanted I would have revealed Kitty Riley's little secret myself, but she's not worth the time or effort. Additionally I can only repeat myself: I don't care what anyone writes about me in the papers. I don't depend on the opinion of people reading that crap. And you would be wise to do the same.

You should learn to be more confident about your skills. Of course you telling Lestrade you thoughtyou might have solved the case would leave him doubtful. But if you were to state with absolute conviction that you have solved the case, he would believe you from the beginning. Stop belittling yourself. You are a competent pathologist. And just to clarify: I did not make "assumptions" on the circumstances of the crime. These were logical conclusions.

You're not one to judge about a messy lifestyle: Your flat is more of a chaos than mine ever was. You have so much useless stuff standing around, and how you can live with a bookshelf that is such a mess I cannot understand. Your books are neither arranged according to titles, authors nor genres. Not even your medical journals are arranged according to issue. How can one live like that? And your collection of DVDs... don't even get me started. Ordinary people may not recognize my system as such, but rest assured I have one. And as opposed to your flat: All stuff that I have in mine is essential to my work. You can't be telling me that a collection of vanilla scented candles holds any relevance to your work as a pathologist. And why do you keep those dead flowers on your sill? Are you planning on conducting any experiments on them, or what other purpose do they serve? You have a morbid sense of humour, but I doubt that you want to be surrounded by death in your spare time as well.

I hope you've told Mrs Hudson that there's nothing to worry about since it is scientifically impossible for anything in the fridge to become alive and eat her. The imagination of old women can be too vivid sometimes.

How can a skull have sentimental value to me? It is just bone. It is a product of an early case, nothing more.

Women being the head of organized crime is not as unusual as you might think. And it's not something that came along only in the last few years (although it's getting more common). Don't you know that Mrs Hudson and the deceased Mr Hudson ran a drug cartel? (She still insists on only doing the typing and being ignorant of what was going on, but we know her better than that, don't we?) But don't mention it to her, because she'll know you got that information from me. But you can YouTube her belly-dancing. She does not like talking about her past, although I don't see why, because she led a rather exciting life. Nowadays the highlight of her days is getting a new tea set.

You are not really fond of parties. I don't understand why you were attending one. Especially one where there would be solely couples that would remind you of your status of being a single woman in your thirties. Why would you torture yourself like that? Seems like I was right in my assumption that you have masochistic tendencies.

As for this Tom guy: He sounds downright boring. Doesn't he have any other ideas for a first date than taking you to a pub? I can't see why you would be even interested in him. He's not your type. He's not like… I don't even know why you get your hopes up. He's a dog person after all and you are a cat's person. As the childish background of your blog so subtly tells...  
>At least he is who he said he was – my backup check confirmed it. Seems like his older sister is the "wild" one in the family, being prosecuted once for indecent behaviour. With Tom you've managed to pick the most boring family member. Congratulations.<p>

Since your date will have already taken place when you'll get that letter, let me guess how it went: If the weather would have permitted it, you had worn your yellow summer dress. You went to _The Fence_, which was okay for you, but you were hoping he would take you to _The Hope_, since this is your favourite pub on Cowcross Street. He ordered a beer and you a gin and tonic. At first it felt awkward, due to your nervousness. You started with some small talk, followed by boring questions from him like, "Do you have siblings? What do your parents do?"(There's an awkward moment because yours are deceased. You tried to lighten the mood with a morbid joke which went terribly wrong). Long story short: You asked each other all those silly questions that don't give you any valid information about a person. There was not much you could tell, since your life stopped being interesting after my departure. Therefore you told him about your job, which he tolerated, but he did not show any real interest in it. You found that a bit disappointing, but tried to hide it, because at least he was not grossed out by what you do for a living like most men were that you had met before. So after three beers (him) and one Gin and Tonic and one Coke (you did not want to seem like a drunk on your first date) you've decided to call it a night. He accompanied you to the underground. And when it was time to say goodbye, he was unsure if he should kiss you. You were not sure yourself, so you kissed him on the cheek. You saw disappointment flicker across his face, but chose to ignore it. You told each other you should do that again one day, but each one of you will wait for the other to make the next move. Subsequently there won't be a second date.  
>How did I do? Now tell me: Is that your idea of a perfect first date? I hardly believe so.<p>

Sherlock

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><p><strong>AN: Since some of you have asked me how long this story will be: I'm planning on doing 24 chapters. All of them are already fully or at least partly written. So it's all mapped out and the letters will get longer and more personal bit by bit. It's a constant work in progress, because if I change something in one letter, it affects all the other ones that follow. That's why it always takes some time until I post the next letter. **


	11. Out with the old in with the new

**A/N: I am so happy that you all seem to like the story. Thank you so much!  
>Thank you Pipsis for being such a wonderful beta!<br>Well, let's see how Molly's date with Tom really went… **

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><p><span><strong>Out with the old in with the new <strong>

"I have only made this letter longer because I have not had the time to make it shorter."(_Letter 16_, 1657)"  
>― Blaise Pascal, <em>The Provincial Letters<em>

20th October

Dear Sherlock,

As a matter of fact I have seen the press conference about the murder in New Delhi, and I even thought, "This solution sounds like something Sherlock would have figured out." But at that point I doubted any involvement on you part, because I thought you were probably still in the Himalayas. Funny that I was right. And congratulations on solving the case!

A thought has crossed my mind the other day: Do your parents know about you not being dead? Were they in it from the beginning, or did Mycroft fill them in later? Do you even have parents? I don't know that kind of stuff about you. I hope you don't mind me babbling in my letters. I know we usually never really talked about private stuff, but since there's nothing happening at work that might intrigue you, I don't know what else to tell you. I hope this is okay.

Me calling Kitty Riley "Hello Kitty" was a reference to a cartoon character called _Hello Kitty_. I am sure you have seen it before: It looks like a white cat wearing a colourful ribbon. One can purchase all kinds of articles with that cat on it: gift cards, stuffed animals, pens, towels, bags ...

Thanks for the compliment, I appreciate it. It means a lot to me knowing that you value my work.

Why would you have given the skull a name if it didn't hold any value to you? Additionally you have the skull labelled male and called it "he" and "him". We all are more or less made from flesh and bones, yet still we are important to someone, so the excuse of him being merely bone does not count. You told me all the stuff in your flat is important to your work. How does Billy fit in there? I hardly believe he is able to help you with your deductions or offer some advice on a case. Or do you secretly rehearse _Hamlet _for your West End debut? ;-)

Do you think I did not notice that you have rearranged my books and my medical journals? Last week it took me half an hour to find the issue I was looking for. You may not believe it, but I have a system too. At least I have a bookshelf and don't pile up my books on the floor... What is wrong with my collection of DVDs? I am aware that it may not contain films you would watch, but I like romantic comedies. Do you even have DVDs? I've never seen some at Baker Street.  
>As for the dead flowers: I am just not good with plants. I constantly forget to water them, so they die after a short time. I even managed to kill my last cactus. And no, I am not planning on conducting some experiments on them. (I've got to admit I was a bit worried you might conduct some experiments on Toby while I was at work.) I just could not find the time to throw them away and buy new ones. Although I highly doubt that the next ones will survive. Thus I am thinking about getting dried flowers instead. But since you think I have too much useless stuff in my flat, I am happy to inform you that I threw away a lot of things last weekend (including the dead plants). I went through old magazines, earrings, souvenirs and clothes that I had kept for some reason. I used to collect magazines, but now I don't even know why I kept most of them. It's not like they contain any vital information. I threw away a lot of my clothes, because I decided to buy new ones. I am sick of wearing the same clothes year in year out. Since I have not gained or lost weight significantly in the last few years (please refrain from any hurtful comment about my weight), I've had some items for years. Somehow I felt like I didn't want them anymore so I packed them into a bag and brought them to Crisis. After doing that it feels a little bit like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Clearing out my wardrobe always makes me feel liberated.<p>

Mrs Hudson running a drug cartel?! I can't believe it! Suddenly I see her in a whole new light. Innocent Mrs Hudson doesn't seem so innocent anymore. No wonder she liked having you and John for tenants. She seems to enjoy having danger in the house. I YouTubed the video of her belly dancing and I am … almost scandalized. Mrs Hudson was Mata Hari, kind of… But somehow it is fitting. I agree: Mrs Hudson is way too canny not to know in which kind of business she was involved. You'll have to tell me the story of how the two of you met one day. I'd love to hear it.

What do you mean with me having masochistic tendencies? What's that supposed to mean? Like most people I don't like getting hurt – neither physically nor emotionally.

Thank you for reminding me of my single-status. But has it ever crossed your mind that maybe I like being single and prefer to be on my own? Not all women's purpose in life is to marry, build a house and have children. I think that's a very chauvinistic point of view.

I don't know how you came to think that I don't like parties. I have never said so. So why do you think so?

You did a backup check on Tom? How could you do that? You did not even know his full name. You don't have to check up on the men I am dating. I am perfectly capable of getting an idea of somebody. I don't need any help from you in that department.

Thank you for the accurate description of my date with Tom. (This is meant to be sarcastic!) How do you know about my yellow summer dress? Did you rummage around my closet while staying in my bedroom? Did you go through all my stuff? Does the word privacy mean nothing to you?  
>The date was not as terrible as you painted it out. Maybe to you "normal" things like having a good conversation are boring, but for me they are not. I like listing to people talking about their lives and getting to know them through that. It was definitely not the worst date I had ever had. But I admit that it was not perfect. But not everything has to be perfect. Hardly anything is ever perfect. Especially if you want something to be so. And since you don't even date, you are not one to judge. If the pub was such a boring idea, where would you take me for our first date?<p>

But you were wrong: I texted him and we met again for lunch the other day and I had a good time. Since he knew I had known you he asked some questions about you (like what kind of person you were or how we got to know each other and if I thought any of the stuff the tabloids had written about you were true). I told him a bit about you and what I thought of Kitty Riley. Don't worry I did not go into detail about your death. I merely told him some general stuff about your job and some cases. Tom is a good listener. We agreed to meet again someday for lunch, but I think it is clear now that there won't be anything more between us than friendship.

So, I have to go to bed, because it's getting late and I have the early shift tomorrow.

Take care!  
>Yours,<p>

Molly


	12. Hamburg

**A/N: My dear readers, again thank you for your kind words and support. I love reading them!**

**Thank you Pipsis! **

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><p><span><strong>Hamburg<strong>

"You deserve a longer letter than this; but it is my unhappy fate seldom to treat people so well as they deserve."  
>― Jane Austen<p>

28th November

Molly,

My quest has brought me to Germany; more precisely to Hamburg. I was successful in bringing down Moriarty's most important middleman in Germany. He hid himself behind the persona of a stevedore named Jakob Prendergast, but his habit of visiting a certain establishment on the Reeperbahn finally gave him away. During one of my countless stakeouts at the harbour (it's so annoying not having my homeless network at hand to do the footwork), I spotted a ship by the name _Gloria Scott_. It made me realize that the case of Gloria Scott seems like it has taken place decades and not years ago. Memory, if not stored properly in a mind palace, is a peculiar thing.  
>Anyway, since it was easier to find Moriarty's middleman than I had expected, I had some spare time to solve one of Mycroft's boring cases. Normally I don't bother to waste my time with stuff like that, but since I want to remain in Mycroft's good graces, I agreed to help with this one. The newspapers named the incident <em>The Mysterious Jeweller<em>, when in reality it was more about a Russian dignitary. A certain Mister Trepoff (a jeweller and member of a diamond smuggling ring whose boss was a Russian dignitary) was convicted of his wife's murder. Since the trial was already in progress, I had to become a member of the jury in order to set the sloppy police work right. All other jurors were blinded by the lies of Mr Trepoff's lawyer. They all thought Mr Trepoff was innocent. No one was able to see behind the departmental intrigue inside the police and draw the right conclusions. The evidence showed (without the shadow of a doubt) that Mr Trepoff was indeed the killer of his wife – he killed her in quite a ruthless way I might add. I could convince the other members of the jury that they were wrong and Mr Trepoff was convicted of the murder of his wife and we could find evidence against the Russian dignitary. It was rather a dull exercise, but now Mycroft owes me and that was worth it.

Since you tend to babble when talking to me face to face it was to be expected that your letters would not be any different. Thus you rambling in your letters does not annoy me any more than it does when we talk to each other in person.

Of course I have parents. As a doctor you should know that I could not have been born otherwise. But if you mean if my parents are still alive: Yes, they are happily living their life. Or so I am told… And yes, they know I am not deceased. I guess otherwise my mother would kill me herself upon my return. Of course you do not know such trivial things about my background. Why would you? The topic has never arisen before and I've never seen it as relevant to tell you about them. And I still would not have, had you not asked me. Please now refrain from questions like, "What did they do for a living?" or "How long have they been married?" because this really holds no relevance. I share some genetic material with them, but apart from that, they are very different from me – and Mycroft on that part.

I am not really sure to which compliment you are referring to. But if you mean that I wrote you are a competent pathologist, it was not a compliment, but a mere state of fact.

Surely, I labelled Billy as male, because he is the skull of a male homo sapiens sapiens, as you (being a doctor) have undoubtedly realized. Of course Billy is essential to my work as consulting detective: He can be useful as a paper weight or to hide cigarettes, and he is a good listener. He never has objections to my theories – unlike other animated objects in my flat. And no, I have no intention of portraying a melancholic, hallucinating Danish prince. If I were prince Hamlet his father would have never been killed, because I would have foreseen Claudius' plan. Which was quite uninventive, I might add.

You have so much useless stuff in your flat, because so many things hold some kind of sentimental value to you. For instance, I don't see the use of photographs of family members. One knows how your relatives look, so why put up some pictures of them? Additionally most photos are lies: They show people how they have never been – smiling, glorified, in flattering light. Those staged photographs are lies in frames.

Maybe it's a good idea to get dried flowers – they are already dead; even you could not do them any more harm.

No, I don't own any DVDs (at least not that I remember). I cannot stand the stuff that's on TV, henceforth I have no interest in buying some disc so I can watch that nonsense whenever I wish.

I have to admit the thought of conducting experiments on your tomcat has crossed my mind, but don't worry, I would have never hurt him, and I would have rewarded him for his collaboration. Additionally I did not have the proper equipment for the experiment I had in mind.

I am glad to read you got rid of some of your clothes. Some items in your possession are hideous. I am sure some of the homeless people will be happy to wear a cardigan with cherry-print. I am looking forward meeting someone from my homeless network in some overly cheerful coloured blouse of yours (that was meant to be sarcastic, in case you couldn't guess). Most of the time the cardigan you used to wear did not fit the blouse, so I hope you'll be more considerate when buying new ones. Why should I make a "hurtful" comment about your weight? I only state facts, nothing more. And you are right: You have not gained or lost weight considerably in the time I have known you. When you buy new clothes, you should maybe ask a female or gay friend for help, because you more or less lack any aesthetics in the clothes department. And you should buy clothes that are your size. Stop wearing all that baggy stuff. You have nothing to hide.

With you having masochistic tendencies I merely meant that you tend to torture yourself willingly (reading those articles that make you sad, visiting Mrs Hudson although it pains you, watching romantic comedies although your love life is practically non-existent, ...) and tend to fall for men who are either bad for you, beyond your reach or unavailable.

No one prefers to be on their own. So no, it has never crossed my mind that you would. My statement was not in any way chauvinistic. You know very well that men and women are equally useful or useless to me. Women are equally cruel as men. The most winning woman I ever knew serves a life-long prison sentence for poisoning three little children for their insurance-money. I did not imply that a woman's purpose in life is to marry and have children. I did not make a general assumption, but was only talking about you. You are obviously looking for a partner. To be clear: This is not an accusation, but a state of fact.

My conclusion that you don't like parties derives from my observation of you when attending one. From your behaviour at last year's Christmas party I could deduce that you are not very fond of that kind of social event. You did not seem to enjoy it very much. You tend to be self-conscious and nervous when in a group of people (even if they are friends) and try to cover it up. And you feel the need to make conversation, which usually does not end very well (I vaguely remember you making a joke about Mrs Hudson's bad hip). Thus my conclusion that you are not fond of social gatherings.

I don't see why you are surprised that I did a backup check on Tom. Given your history with men I thought it wise. Isn't that considerate of me? Obviously you are not capable of finding yourself a suitable man. You are way too gullible and credulous, hence an easy prey for people who want to exploit you. Don't chide me for stating Tom was boring. You've said so yourself, "He is nice." Nice equals boring. Which woman would want a man who is nice?

I did not "rummage around" your closet. I was just bored one day and had nothing else to do after I had arranged your books and medical journals. Do you have any idea what kind of torture it was for me to stay at yours those few days after the fall?! I was bored to hell.

I've never said I find a good conversation boring. But I can hardly imagine that you and Mr Nice-guy had something that is generally considered as a "good conversation" going on. On the contrary, I value an insightful conversation, but that is hardly possible with most people. You've written that it wasn't your worst date. I don't even want to imagine what your worst date had been like... Why are you asking me where I would take you to our first date? We won't go on a date. I don't to dating. But if I did, I would come up with something much more inventive than a drink at a local pub. I would find something we are both interested in.

I hope you're happy that you proved me wrong and met him again. You've found yourself a platonic lunch-date. Congratulations!

Since I am running out of paper I'll have to stop.

Sherlock


	13. Christmas

**A/N: I hope no one will be appalled by the way Molly and Sherlock talk about suicide in the next 2 chapters. I solely wanted them to have a more or less scientific talk (based on statistics) in a Sherlock-kind-of-way. It is in no way my intention to downplay the serious topic of self-harm and suicide. **

**To Saoirse75: I don't know. I guess the "jury thing" was a mistake and to cover it up the just added the sentence that it was unusual. After all, they messed up some research about the Underground in TEH as well. One might not believe it, but they are human after all ;-) Thanks for your review! **

**Pipsis, cheers! ;-) **

* * *

><p><span><strong>Christmas <strong>

"More than kisses, letters mingle souls."  
>― John Donne<p>

25th December

Dear Sherlock,

It seems to me like you are quite busy. I find it very impressive that in between dismantling Moriarty's network you'd find time to solve cases. _The Mysterious Jeweller _sounds like a title John would have given the case on his blog, don't you think? I found some articles about the case on the internet. It seems like it had been a major thing in Germany. Unbelievable how that was all linked to this Russian dignitary in Odessa! I am happy to read that you've tracked down another one of Moriarty's men. Could you get a better idea of how vast his web of criminals really is? I can perfectly imagine the smug smile on your face when telling Mycroft you took care of the business he had asked you about. He will not like owing you.

There was a ship named _Gloria Scott_? I haven't thought about Gloria Scott for some time either. I agree, it feels like our first case together has been in another lifetime. Of course it was not our first case together as in together, but... you know what I mean. Poor Ms Scott... she deserved a better boyfriend than Mr Armitage. I am sure she imagined her romantic cruise with him to turn out differently. We should tell John about this case at one point. I think it would make a thrilling blog entry.

How can you say that the story of the lives of your parents holds no relevance? Your parents and your past are what have shaped you and helped make you the man you are now. Maybe you would be a totally different person, had you been raised by different people. We all share more than just some genes with our parents. Even if we don't want to admit it, but most people become more and more like their parents when they get older. I hate to say it out loud (or write it down in this case), but I have realized that I have become more and more like my mother in the last few years. A boyfriend of mine once told me that he thought that I was a lot like my mother. No need to say I refused to have sex with him that night.

I liked your explanation why Billy is essential for your cases. Now I definitely know you are just joking. Just admit it: Even you have one piece of sentimental value in your flat. I don't think having photographs of family members or friends has anything to do with not knowing how they look like. About you saying they are lies, because they don't show how a person really is: Of course they don't, but they mostly show a person in the best light, and I guess that's what we want to think of our family and friends and how we want to remember them: at their best. It's like with memory: After some time you tend to forget the bad things and only remember the good ones. Like you've said: the memory is a peculiar thing. Maybe we put up pictures of our loved ones to feel like we are near them, like they are here with us, although they are far away, or even dead. When I feel down, looking at the pictures of my dad and me gives me strength and comfort. And maybe because one tends to remember the good things, you consider this remembrance as lies, but I say, "Then let them be lies!" I think people need that kind of lies. Sometimes the truth is just not good enough. "I don't want reality, I want magic!"

I followed your advice and bought some dried flowers. Like you've said: they are already dead and I have experience with dead things. I chose blue hydrangea and white snowball bush and put them into a vase on the coffee table. It looks very nice.

I am happy to inform you that I did buy myself new clothes and I am pretty sure that even you would approve of some of them. I even bought some skirts, because Greg (Lestrade) told me the other day that I look nice in skirts, so I thought, "Why not?" But don't worry I did buy some new cardigans with fruit-prints too ;-) Actually I like the idea of homeless people running around in cherry-print cardigans. It would turn the grey, foggy London into a more colourful place.  
>I know you are quite proud of only stating facts (like if I have gained weight or not), but sometimes it's better to keep the facts to yourself; especially if they have something to do with a woman and her weight. Women don't want you telling them when they have gained weight.<p>

Look who's talking about masochistic tendencies: You were the one torturing yourself by going to your own funeral! And you can't tell me that it was not hurtful for you to watch your friends grieve. Apart from that it was also careless to attend it. Imagine what would have happened if someone had seen you! All hard work could have been in vain and your plan and reputation (still) ruined.

"No one prefers to be on his own?" Therefore you would like to have a partner as well? I beg your pardon, I take back what I said about you being chauvinistic. It is true I have never seen you treat a woman with less respect than a man.  
>Maybe I want a man who is nice. Given my history with men – as you've so wonderfully put it – does that surprise you? Maybe that's exactly why I am looking for a nice guy. But I don't think it's fair of you to judge my taste in men. Not all men I have dated have been bad for me. For instance my first friend in college was a very nice and considerate guy who had a very good influence on me. I was just unlucky with the last one, and like I've said before, Jim... Moriarty was not even my boyfriend; we only went out three times.<p>

Well, I have to tell you that your deduction about me not liking parties it wrong. You can't draw a valuable conclusion from an event as horrible as last year's Christmas party (isn't it ironic that it was precisely one year ago?). I cannot believe you brought that up! But since you did, I'll have to elaborate on it, I guess. Of course I did not enjoy the Christmas party. I was looking forward to spending an evening with my friends and maybe talking to you about something different than a case. And then you were all moody and tried your best to make everyone feel miserable. And like with everything else you got your mind set on, you have succeeded again. You know very well that your words have hurt me. You have apologized and I accepted it. I forgave you a long time ago, but still it was cruel of you to do that. You were just dumping all your frustration on me and I don't think I deserved that.

Doing a backup check on my friends is not considerate, Sherlock, it's sticking your nose into other people's business. It is considered as being high-handed. You'll have to learn to trust people and let them make their own mistakes and learn from them. You cannot always protect the people you care about and keep them from getting hurt. You cannot control everything, no matter how much you might want to.

Well, I am sorry that staying with me was such a torture for you. Just though you know: It was no birthday party for me either. I tried to help you, but you did not make it easy for both of us. I understand that it was a very difficult time for you and I wanted to be there for you, but you would not let me. That's okay, I know you are not very fond of affection, but I don't think it's fair of you to say staying with me was "torture." I did my best under the circumstances and I think I deserve some credit for that.

I can't believe time went by so fast and it is Christmas again. It almost feels like it has only been yesterday that we were invited for the Christmas party at Baker Street. Where and how are you spending the holiday? Is there snow where you are? It was snowing a bit yesterday, so at least the rooftops are white, which looks nice. But today it is too cold for snow. The heating broke down in the morgue, so I have to work with my coat on. At least I don't have to worry about my "patients" catching a cold... I am working a double shift today, so my colleagues can be with their families. Since I have no pressing matters to attend today that's okay for me. I met with Mrs Hudson and Greg for lunch and we exchanged some gifts. Mrs Hudson had knit me a scarf. You would hate it: It is very long with pink and black stripes. I love it! Since it is so cold in the pathology her present comes in very handy. Too bad I can't wear gloves while doing an autopsy. As you know Christmas is one of the busiest times of the year in the morgue (the most suicides). So far all suicides have been the usual ones (pills, hanging, jumping from a bridge), therefore no interesting stories for you. But rest assured, should there be one that is at least slightly intriguing I will let you know.

I know you don't like that particular holiday, but still... I wanted to give you a small present. Since it is not so easy to find a present that would fit into an envelope, I had to improvise a bit. I know you've said you found them silly and useless and they are "lies in frames", but I thought it could be a little piece of home that you could take with you on your journeys. I hope you'll like it.

Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes. Wherever you are.

Yours,  
>Molly<p>

P.S.: And a happy New Year!


	14. Berlin

**A/N: More than 100 reviews?! You guys are AWESOME! **

**I am glad people seem to like the quotations at the beginning of the chapters. It took quite some time to find the right ones. I am happy the research paid off ;-) Just though you know: The one I used in this chapter is one of my all-time favourites. Enjoy! **

**Thank you Pipsis, for making it better ;-) **

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><p><span><strong>Berlin <strong>

"Sometimes one can't believe how much space there is between the lines." – Stanislaw Jercy Lec

8th January

Molly,

Please ignore the design of the post card. They did not sell any paper in the shop where I bought it, and the only other one they had had was one with two copulating bears in front of the Reichstag on it and I thought that was even more inappropriate than this one.

Concerning last year's Christmas party: You don't have to elaborate on anything I write. It's not like I'm forcing you. You don't have to write me at all, if you don't want to. I refuse to be a nuisance, so we can stop this ridiculous letter-writing anytime. It's not like I'm depending on it. It is merely an efficient way of

9th January

Molly,  
>I was interrupted yesterday while writing to you and now that I wanted to continue and while reading what I had written so far, I might have realized that my words were a little harsh and my mind was clouded by ... emotions. You may be right that my conclusion about you hating parties was drawn from false data. It was not my intention to mock you on that night. That's not true. It was my intention to mock you, but it was never my intention to hurt or embarrass you, which I obviously did. It still remains true what I said after that: I am sorry. (Don't ever show John that I wrote that down. He'll rub it in my face for the rest of my life.)<p>

As you can clearly see I have managed to buy some new paper. They sold stationery with kittens on it in the store where I bought this. It looked a lot like the background of your blog. Ghastly!

I am in Berlin now and I have to say that I preferred Hamburg. I cannot really tell you why, but maybe it is because Hamburg lies by the sea and during my time there it had always been grey, foggy and windy.

Studies show that education is only responsible up to 50% for what kind of person one will become. Therefore if I had been raised by someone else, I would not be a totally different person. This is all a big "what if", because psychology is a field that works with parameters that can hardly be measured. Thus it is all more or less useless speculation in which I won't participate. It's the same as me saying you probably would be a different person if your father was still alive. Maybe you would and maybe you wouldn't. There is no way to find out. Therefore useless thoughts to occupy your mind with. And believe me when I tell you: Mycroft and I are nothing like our parents. Why does it go without saying that you would refuse to have sex with your boyfriend, because he said you were like your mother? I honestly don't know what to say to that.

Happy family portraits are prevarications, nothing more, but I see why you would want that. I understand why you would want to remember your father as a good man. I can only blame the Christmas season for your overly sentimental perception on the topic, but maybe you are right: People need their little white lies to keep going. And maybe that's where your strength derives from; from your habit to see the good in people. Sometimes I envy you for your ignorance.  
>Quoting that line of <em>A Streetcar named Desire <em>just proves it again. Leave it up to you to find the sole fairytale-like line in an otherwise quite depressing play. And again I blame it on the Christmas season that generally makes people overly sentimental.

Of course Lestrade thinks you look "nice" in a skirt although I am sure that "nice" was not the word that came to his mind when he saw you in a skirt for the first time. You do realize that he is sexually interested in you, don't you? Is his divorce finally through or is he still living the illusion that it will all work out in the end and his wife will stop cheating on him? He is not the right man for you. He may evoke in you your helper syndrome, but don't fall for it. You cannot save him. He can only help himself. Now that I think about it, that's another tendency of yours: falling for men who need to be saved.

I don't see why you are having a problem with me stating what you weigh. Your weight is fine according to the BMI – even a bit below. A few pounds more would not do you any bad and no ordinary man would even realize if you'd gain a few pounds.

I can see your point, but I did not go to my funeral because I wanted to torture myself. I knew what was awaiting me there. I went there for my pure amusement. Ever since I first read _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _I wanted to attend my own funeral. I was pretty sure that was a once in a lifetime chance, so I took it. The only reason I went there was to satisfy my curiosity. It was in no way risky. I knew exactly what I was doing and I am perfectly capable of making myself invisible. There was no chance anyone could have spotted me, otherwise I would not have gone there. I would not have jeopardized the plan. By the way: Why did you not attend my funeral?

God no, I don't want to have a partner! I am the exception to the rule. I am married to my work, as you know. And I am perfectly fine with that. I have always handled it like that and I am planning on sticking to that.  
>No, you do not want a man who is nice. We both know it. Why would you have fallen for me then? I am the least nice person I know. So stop lying to yourself.<p>

I am surprised you don't approve of me doing back up checks on your potential boyfriends. If me looking out for you is considered being high-handed then so be it. I have been called worse. I may not be able to control everything, but I can at least try. Still I think you should stick to what I have told you before and avoid any future attempts at a relationship. It will only bring you heartache and pain, since you are a very emotional person.

I think you misunderstood me saying that it was torture staying at yours. I did not mean that being in the same flat with you was torture, but being cooped up for days was. This had nothing to do with you. Not being able to leave the house for days on end always feels like torture to me even if I am alone. I did not mean I conceived your company as torture.

You writing a letter to me exactly one year after last year's Christmas party is not ironic, but purely coincidental. It's so annoying people can't use the term correctly. Please keep that in mind next time you'll use it.  
>I was still in Hamburg at Christmas and I spent New Year's there as well. We did not have snow, but since I am not particularly fond of it, I did not care. I agree, your description of the scarf Mrs Hudson made for you sounds like I would not have liked it. It sounds like a piece of clothing coming straight from hell or out of your closet (This is meant to be a joke).<br>That's the only thing I like about Christmas: a chance to see some innovative suicides. But even those have decreased over the last few years and people get more and more less inventive when killing themselves. Your writing about your Christmas shift just proves my point. If nothing else, the way I have supposedly killed myself must have been a clue for everyone who knew me that I could not be dead for real. I would never choose such a mundane way of killing myself like jumping off a hospital roof.

True, I don't care about Christmas in general, because I don't see why one should celebrate the birth of a baby on the 25th of December when in reality it had not been born on that date. They just picked that date, because it was a popular one in pagan religious celebrations. Therefore I spent it like every year since I have moved out of my parent's house (except for last year, or course): not celebrating it. Anyway, thank you for the photograph of Billy. I figure you have let yourself into my flat under false pretences the last time you were visiting Mrs Hudson. I cannot use it as paperweight, but it is almost as good as a listener as the real skull. Thank you.

Sherlock


	15. Wish you were here

**A/N: As usual: My thanks to you all. It's a joy writing for you. And I am happy you're enjoying it – especially because English is not my native tongue… so I always feel a bit insecure…  
>I know you're all curious about Molly's response, but I think it's time to have a look into her journal again… <strong>

* * *

><p><span><strong>Wish you were here<strong>

"To write is human, to get mail, divine!"  
>― Susan Lendroth<p>

12th February  
>I know, dear Journal, that I am a lazy writer. So much time passes between my entries, but sometimes when I want to write something I am too busy and then when I'd have some time I just don't want to. And since I fear I tend to abuse my letter conversations with Sherlock for therapy, I don't need to use you so often. Additionally I prefer to have a dialogue with Toby (well, it's more of a monologue, of course) sometimes. But today I felt like I wanted to write again, because the more letters I get from Sherlock, the more confused I become. Like the other day:<p>

When I opened the last envelope Sherlock had sent me, I almost chocked on my coffee: There were a letter and post card from Berlin in it. The post card showed an aerial perspective of Berlin and had "Ich wünschte du wärst hier" in pink letters written on it. I looked up the words and found out that it meant "wish you were here" in German. Well… This could only have been a mistake, couldn't it? For a second my heart sped up and I felt myself blushing. But as soon as I turned the card over, my heart rate slowed down again, because the first thing Sherlock told me was to ignore the design of the post card, because he did not have any paper and that card was the only one he could buy. This was a more than reasonable explanation for the peculiar post card. For a moment I had thought Sherlock had lost his mind. Or was playing an evil trick on me. With him you'll never know.

Obviously he was upset about me writing "I have to elaborate" on something he wrote. He totally got it the wrong way and was his usual sulking self. But then he got interrupted and continued the letter on the next day (this time on plain white paper again). His mood had improved considerably, and he more or less said he was sorry for the harsh words at the beginning of the letter. This is more or less the typical conversation we're having. In one sentence he is almost nice and charming and in the next he is back to his rude and sarcastic self. At times he is even joking, and then he is insulting me. Sometimes he states things that sound suspiciously like a compliment. I don't think he even realizes that he does that. Now and then I wish I would know what is going on in this complicated mind of his. Although sometimes I am not sure if he himself even knows. And if Sherlock has trouble dealing with his mind, how would a "normal" person like me feel? I would probably go mad. He may be brilliant, but I think he pays a very high price for his intelligence. It must be so hard for him to keep his busy mind under control, never being able to just not think. That's probably his curse.

He did not tell me how long he estimates his mission will take or how vast Jim's, I mean, Moriarty's network is. I figure he does not want to let me into too many details, because as he's told me in one of his first letters, the more people were involved the more dangerous it would be for him.

At first I was not sure what to write, because there is not really something exciting going on in my life. The excitement more or less left together with the world's only consulting detective. Thus I can only tell him "boring" stuff like what I am or the others are doing. I know Sherlock doesn't like small talk, but so far he has not complained. To my surprise he answers most of my questions and even asks some in return; by far not as many as I ask him, but that was to be expected, wasn't it? Still I was astonished that he answered most of my questions in such an elaborate way. In person he hardly ever talks more than he has to. Don't get me wrong: Sherlock loves to hear himself speak, but only to show off and impress people with his brilliance. He usually keeps quiet about personal matters or filters such conversations as a whole. But through his letters I can get a glimpse of the private side of Sherlock Holmes from time to time.

With every letter it felt easier, almost natural to write him. I felt myself opening up more and more, and it became simpler for me to put him into his place. But maybe that's just because it's generally easier to do that on paper than in person. This single degree of separation afforded by pen and paper gives me both opportunity and courage; opportunity to finally have a more or less normal conversation with him without stammering, and courage to put him into his place and let him know when he is hurting me or treating me badly. Who would have thought that I would become the sort-of-pen pal of the world's only consulting detective? Sometimes I have to smile or laugh because of what he writes, like the other day when he was honestly confused why it was not a good thing to tell a girl that she was like her mother. While reading it I could almost imagine him staring at the paper, not knowing what had hit him ;-) I am still amazed at times how ignorant he can be about ordinary or personal matters.

In his last letter he even apologized again for the fiasco at last year's Christmas party. Can you believe it? And not in a sarcastic way, but I am sure he really meant it. I have to admit I was a bit taken aback. I thought he might have decided to forget the whole incident.

He had not asked me about it, but I told him about the others – how they have been so far, what they are doing. He commented on Mrs Hudson, Anderson and Greg (though he acted as if he did not know about whom I was talking about until I clarified that by "Greg" I meant Lestrade; I am not sure if he just pretends he does not remember his name, or if it is just a symptom of his usual ignorance of stuff he considers as "boring"), but he had nothing to say to my story about John. And normally Sherlock Holmes has an opinion about everything. He has only mentioned John once so far when telling me not to show something he wrote to him. And he said it in a humorous way. I can imagine that he does not speak about his best friend, because it hurts too much. After all he had to leave him behind with a bag of lies instead of a proper goodbye.

Although I told Sherlock about the articles on the subject of his suicide (he can google them after all), I did not tell him about the reactions of my colleagues at the hospital. They all look at me with a pitiful expression on their faces and talk behind closed doors. As far as I know there are two sorts of people at the hospital: The ones that do not go up on the roof anymore, because IT happened there and the others who love to go up there because of it. They take the new colleagues up there with them and tell the story of his tragic death. Useless to say that the story becomes more and more elaborated every time. It is disgusting, and it makes me sick! How can people be so disrespectful? I did not tell Sherlock any of this, because I don't want to bother him. I am sure he already has enough things to deal with. He does not need a whining pathologist too. The situation at Bart's is something I'll have to deal with myself. I could take it until now, so I will be able to cope with it for some time more. Additionally it will get better with time. People will find new gossip.

Through the letters I get a glimpse of the person behind his consulting detective persona. I am always surprised when he writes stuff like "Ever since I have first read _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _I wanted to attend my own funeral." I don't even think he realizes how much it says about him. I guess this sentence struck me, because one tends to forget so easily that even Sherlock Holmes was an ordinary little boy once. Well, he definitely never was "ordinary", but he was a small boy who loved adventure stories and whose dad read to him. He asked me why I did not attend his funeral and I don't know what to say. Sure, I know why I did not go, but can I tell him the whole truth? Can I be totally honest with him and tell him how much it would have hurt me to see his – our – friends grieving him? Can I admit to him that I was not strong enough to deal with it, that I was not sure if I could have managed to keep up this horrible charade? I don't want him to doubt me or the decision he made by choosing me as his confident. As I have already said: He already has a lot of baggage, I don't want to add to the pile. I want to make things easier for him, not make them worse.

The letters arrive in a very irregular pattern from different corners of the world. He always writes to me where he is. I try to follow his movements on the map. He has travelled such a long way! He has almost been through whole of Europe and even in New Delhi and the Himalayas. He does not specify what he does exactly and I don't ask. Maybe it is not safe for him to tell, or he thinks I would not understand. I know that I would not like what he is doing. I don't have any illusions that tracking down Moriarty's network does include killing people. And maybe that's why I don't ask. I don't want him to tell me that he has killed someone. I know that it would be in self-defence (and maybe not for the first time) or to keep us safe. Yes, that's it: Maybe I am afraid to ask if he already had to kill someone, because he is not only doing it for himself, but to keep his friends safe. And I would not want anyone to kill for me (or die for me). So I refrain from asking about his mission. If he will tell me one day, I will comment on it of course, but until then I will leave it up to him if he wants to talk about it.

In between dismantling Moriarty's network he even has the time to solve some cases. Well, he probably does not have the time, but take the time. I guess he misses solving cases, but of course he would never admit that. And I dare not ask if he does. Not that his mission is not a case, it is probably the biggest one he has got so far, but I think it is still something very different; Especially because he does not have someone to help him. He is all alone in this and that makes me sad. Especially when I wrote him at Christmas, I felt sorry for him. I wondered where he was and if he was doing fine. No one should be alone at Christmas, even if you don't celebrate it. Sherlock played it down, of course, saying he did not care about the holiday, but I know that's not entirely true. Just as it is not true that he does not have friends, or care about people. I know he does, maybe even more than we all give him credit for. Like I've said before: We all don't know what is going on in his brilliant mind.

So although Sherlock says he does not care about Christmas I could not help myself and sent him a small present. I know, I should have learned something by last year's fiasco, but I wanted to give him something. At least this time he can't humiliate me in front of our friends. Of course the present needed to be something light and thin that would fit into a normal envelope. I thought about what would make him happy and what he would probably like. Not so easy with our detective… While reading through some previous letters of him, I had the idea of giving him some piece of home. So I took a picture of his friend Billy the skull and sent it to him. Sherlock does not admit that he misses London, but I bet he does. I wanted my gift to be something that would remind him of home and that would be an incentive for him to get back to us. I thought a photograph would be something he could take with him wherever he goes – a small piece of home in his pocket so to say.

And that leads me directly to my problem: I don't know if this letter writing with Sherlock is such a good thing anymore. If it ever was a good thing to begin with… Don't get me wrong, I love reading his letters, because it feels a bit like he is here with me. I can almost hear his condescending voice and see his sharp gaze fixed on me when he is chiding me for asking silly questions. But that's exactly the point: After Sherlock's departure I was determined to move on and find myself a suitable man and be happy with him. Out of sight, out if mind so to say. Now what? The thought of getting a new letter is haunting me every day. It's almost worse than when he was still alive... He still is alive... You know what I mean... I just don't know if it is healthy for me to keep it up. But how should I end it? "Dear Sherlock, I don't want to be your pen pal anymore, because it only makes me love you more, and I was determined to forget my silly crush on you. Yours, Molly" Maybe not… I don't want to let him down. I just can't. I know he must be going through a tough time, even if he does not say so. Why else would he write at all? I don't dare to stop writing him, giving him the impression that I don't care about him anymore, or that I have abandoned him. I guess he is writing me, because he has no one else to turn to. So how can I be so cruel to turn away from him, just because it would be easier for me? I can't even bear the thought of it. Sometimes I wonder if my selflessness is a pathology. Isn't it ironic that I am actually on the same page with Sherlock at this point, in that I don't like having feelings at all? He would be so proud of me using the term ironic correctly. I am constantly torn between looking forward to the next letter and hating myself for it. How did I become even more dependent on him although he is away?

I've tried to distract myself by going out, meeting with friends and even getting to know new people, but somehow my mind always drifts back to Sherlock. I've tried to date Tom and I really wanted it to work; he was nice, caring, a good listener, … But maybe that was the problem: I wanted it to work too badly. Maybe Tom and I could have become an item when we had met another time, or before I had met Sherlock. But now it just doesn't work. I like to spend time with him, and I appreciate our lunch dates, but that's as far as it goes and ever will. He seems to be okay about that. I think… We have never openly discussed it, but I think we don't need to. We understand each other. Sue told him about Sherlock (she told him that he had been a close friend of mine – which is more or less a lie, but it's better than her telling him the truth: That he was a weird guy on whom I had a he crush on and whom I occasionally helped with cases and who did not acknowledge me except when he needed something) and I figure Tom interprets my distant behaviour as mourning a close friend. He probably thinks I need some time to get over it. If he only knew… I am still wondering myself when I will get over Sherlock Holmes.


	16. New Year's Resolutions

**A/N: Thank you all for your support and reviews – I appreciate you spending your precious time on reading and reviewing my story. I know how busy one is at this time of year ;-) **

**Well, then on with the letters… **

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><p><span><strong>New Year's resolutions <strong>

"Your letter filled the hole in my day like a key. Turn it."  
>― Bill Callahan<p>

18th February

Dear Sherlock,  
>I am glad to hear that you are doing okay so far and that you are sticking to your Grinch-y attitude towards Christmas. It's a comfort to know that in a world of change some things remain the same. Do you have any New Year's resolutions that you know you'll never keep? I have my usual one: drinking less coffee.<p>

I agree: The postcard with the two copulating bears would have been even weirder. Have you been to Berlin before? Had you been to any city that you have visited in the last few months before? Did you do a lot of travelling when you were young? I mean, you are still young, but… you know what I mean, don't you?

Thank you for apologizing for what you've said last year at the Christmas party. I appreciate it, I really do. I know this kind of thing does not come easy for you. Don't worry it would have never crossed my mind to show any of your letters to anyone else. They are just between you and me. They are private and no one else's business. Like a diary. Yes, you've hurt my feelings, but I've already forgiven you. You know that, don't you? I just cannot be mad at you for long. Maybe that should have been my New Year's resolution – learning to stay mad at you for longer.

Of course we could not say what would have happened if you would have had other parents, but still I find it funny sometimes to play a little what-if-game. I am sure I would be a different person if my father was still alive. Our experiences and the people we meet shape us, they change us. They challenge, break, hurt, help, love or support us and sometimes they help us grow and make us stronger. The death of my father has influenced me greatly. It has changed me in many ways. I learned a lot about myself and my perception of life (and death) through it. I learned to value the little things and that there is nothing more important than spending time with the people you love and letting them know that they are loved. Everyone has instances in their lives that change them irrevocably and I am sure you are no exception to the rule in this case.

Let me give you an advice: If you fancy a girl, don't ever tell her she is like her mother. Women don't like it at all when their boyfriends compare them to their mothers. I am not so sure if you and Mycroft really don't have anything in common with your parents. I'll be the judge of that when I'll meet them.

You amaze me time and time again how you manage to turn a compliment into an insult…

Greg (Lestrade) is not "sexually interested" in me. I know he likes me, but we are just friends. There's nothing sexual about it. We've known each other since my first day at St. Bart's and we've worked together on a lot of cases since then. I value him and I guess the same things goes for him, but that's all. Nothing more. He may flirt with me occasionally, but he's not serious about it. I guess he sees me as a little sister, and he's a bit like an older brother for me. Apropos Greg: his divorce is through. I don't know if he is happy or sad about it. Maybe a bit of both. He refuses to talk about it – at least so far. Maybe he will one evening in a pub under the influence of beer. All men are the same: They only find the courage to talk about their feelings when inebriated.

I am not suffering from a helper syndrome. Just because I feel the need to help people and care about them does not make it pathologic. And why are we constantly analysing my taste in men? I don't think I want to talk about that with you. Especially because we have quite different opinions on that matter.

Telling a woman what she weighs is about the same as telling her she is like her mother: not good. Women are sensitive about the subject of weight and don't want men to comment on it – only if they tell her she has lost weight. So better keep your observations about women gaining weight to yourself.

I don't believe you. You did not go to your funeral only out of curiosity. I understand that it may have been part of the reason why you went, but... I liked _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer _too, although my favourite character was not Tom, but Huckleberry Finn. Back to the topic of your funeral: I did not go there, because I had to work. We were understaffed that week, and I could not turn Mike down. He had already covered most of the shifts in that week. Additionally I hate funerals – even if they are fake. And I knew you were not dead, so I thought it would not matter if I did not go. I did not think anyone would even realize that I was not there.

We both know you are the exception to the rule in many cases and I know you love your work (like I love mine), but there's more to life than work. Work is not there for us when we get sick or need a shoulder to lean on. It does not keep us warm at night and it does not hold our hands when we need support. I think it's very important to be passionate about one's job, but it should not be one's sole purpose in life.

Compared to you, everyone is a "very emotional person." Sorry, that was rude of me to say. Yes, I may be a very empathic person, but I can't help it. That's just the way I am. I know you well enough to not try to tell you what to do, since you won't listen to anyone but yourself.

Thank you for clarifying what you meant with staying at my flat being a torture for you. I know how you always need mental exultation, and I can understand that arranging my books and journals does not do the trick. My words may have come across more harshly than I had intended. You know that I would help you again anytime.

True, if you would really commit suicide, you would choose a way that would draw more attention towards you, like jumping off St Paul's Cathedral or Big Ben.

Mrs Hudson told me the other day that she wished to introduce me to her nephew Bill. She said he was a kind, young man whom she had told about me and who was curious to meet me. It was so embarrassing, because I did not know how to politely decline. I know she means well, but I don't need her to set up a date for me. I tried to tell her that I was happy by being single, but she insisted on giving him a chance and meet him for coffee. I told her I would think about it. I hope she'll forget about it 'til the next time I'll see her. I don't want to let her down, but I don't want to go on a date with her nephew either.

Toby is behaving strange. I know you're not very fond of him, and you probably don't understand since you don't have a pet, but I am really worried about him. He hardly eats anything, does not play with his toys or climb the cat tree, but hides under my bed most of the time. When I try to get him out he hisses, and he even tried to bite me at one point. It's almost like he's afraid of me. The few times he crawled out under my bed I checked if he was limping or had any visible injuries, but I could not detect any. He tries to avoid me and does not want to be petted or touched at all. As you can see his behaviour is rather peculiar. Hence I will take him to the vet tomorrow. I did not want to do it right away, afraid I was only overacting, and I hoped his behaviour would go back to normal. He has always been a very peculiar cat and very fond of his "personal space", but the way he is now makes me anxious. I tried to think what it could be that is making him act so strange, but I can't think of anything. I hope there's nothing seriously wrong with him. I cannot bear the thought of that. What if he is terminally ill? What if he is going to die? He is still so young… I cannot imagine a life without him.

Sorry, I don't want to bother you anymore with dull, whining stories about my cat. Take care!

Yours,

Molly


	17. Amsterdam

**A/N: Since this will be my last update before Christmas, I'd like to wish you all a merry Christmas! May the holiday – craziness pass you by and I hope you'll be able to enjoy the festivities with your loved ones. Thank you for being a bunch of lovely, supportive people! **

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><p><span><strong>Amsterdam<strong>

"An inspired letter can be as riveting as a stare. It can move us to tears, spur us to action, provoke us, uplift us, touch us. Transform us. When written from the heart, letters are dreams on paper, wishes fulfilled, desires satisfied."  
>― Alexandra Stoddard, <em>Gift of a Letter<em>

20th March

Molly,

Ha, I am pretty sure you have thought you'll need to explain to me what you've meant with "Grinch-y attitude towards Christmas", but I have to disappoint you, because (believe it or not) my father used to read the stories of Theodor Seuss Geisel to me when I was a kid. Thus I knew what you were talking about, and I have to say I don't like to be compared to a furry, ugly, grumpy recluse, although I can relate to his aversion for Christmas and being a recluse.

No, I don't have any New Year's resolutions. I don't see why people make one if they have no intention of keeping it. Why would you want to reduce your intake of coffee? Apart from having an atrocious taste in clothes and lacking confidence, this is your only vice; and definitely your least annoying one. So why give it up? I find your suggestion of your other New Year's resolution way better. That would be a proper one, because it is condemned to fail. We both know you could not stay mad at me for long. Don't fool yourself.

It amazes me that even in your letters you manage to stutter and babble. I don't care about my age, so there's no need to stammer. And yes, I did quite some travelling when I was younger. I studied at different universities across Europe and attended summer courses (one in the US), although I did not participate in the lectures most of the time. As you can imagine they were boring, because mostly I knew more about the subject than the teachers. But it was a good opportunity to visit other places. I had been to most places I had to go to during my search for Moriarty's men before; like Paris, Berlin, Amsterdam ... Of course I recognize all the streets and don't need a map, because I know the layout of the cities, but being here feels different now. It's not the same. Maybe one misses one fixed point in a changing age.  
>I know you did voluntary work with the Red Cross in Serbia during your studies. Apart from that, did you do any travelling when you were younger?<p>

I am in Amsterdam right now. Moriarty's network turns out to be bigger than I thought, and it takes more time than I originally estimated. I have to admit at times it's exhausting and frustrating. Sitting for hours in a car while on a stakeout or listening to stupid phone conversations in hope to get any kind of useful information is tiresome to no end. There are days when nothing happens, and I get the feeling that I took one step forward and at least two steps back. There is still a lot to be done until I'll reach the top of the pyramid. On the other day I was so fed up with listening to the phone conversations of one of Moriarty's men that I seriously considered visiting the Anne Frank museum or even Madame Tussaud's. Now can you imagine how desperate I was!? I am in Amsterdam, because one of Moriarty's men (the one I intercept and only talks about the problems with his hooker girlfriend) owns a chain of coffee shops and launders money through them. As you might know a coffee shop in the Netherlands has hardly anything to do with coffee (although the coffee there is not bad). Therefore I spend my days spying on people who get stoned in one of those shops. Ghastly! To blend in I even purchased a bike and use it to get around the city. I am looking forward when this part of the mission is over and I can move on.

Thank you for your advice in the dating department, but I think if I did date (which I don't) I would listen to someone who has a better record. But don't worry, I hardly doubt that I will every "fancy" someone, and if I will it will be a woman not a "girl". But I will keep in mind what you said (about not talking about a woman's weight too).

Why would you meet my parents? They don't live in London. Even I don't know when I will see them again. Normally they arrive unannounced – another annoying habit of them. I almost fear they'll show up on my doorstep here in Amsterdam one day, thinking that it would be lovely to surprise me. Parents can be a nuisance.  
>Surely the death of your father has influenced you since he was the only family left you'd had. But it did not change who you were. When he died you were already at an age where your personality was more or less fully developed. It may have altered your opinion about life after death, but it has not changed you as a whole.<p>

Turning a compliment into an insult is my special gift. I trained hard to archive it.

Now let me give you some advice about men: Believe me, Lestrade does not see you in a little-sister-kind-of-way.; unless you mean as in an incest relationship. No, Lestrade is interested in you as a woman and if you don't want to get his hopes up you should set clear boundaries. Especially if you will meet him at a pub and he'll tell you about his failed marriage. He will seek comfort and take advantage of your caring nature. Don't let him get too close. He may need your support, but not your pity.  
>And not all men need alcohol to talk about their feelings. I have met some individuals who felt the need to express their thoughts freely and unasked. Horrible! Why do women want men to talk about their feelings? What does it help if I articulate that I feel miserable? Talking about it does not change anything. It's like all of those psychiatrists who think that talking about it will make it better and make the problem disappear. People should talk less, but do something about their problems. Not talking about your feelings is brave, but acting according to them.<br>I am glad to hear you are not interested in Lestrade, because the relationship would not last. Maybe you really start to learn something in terms of relationships.

"We" are not analysing your taste in men – it's me who is doing it. You have no right to complain about it since you brought up that topic by telling me about Tom. Henceforth I merely continued the conversation and told you about my objective observations in the hopes it would give you some new insights that might help you see your mistakes in your previous choices in men and prevent another fiasco at your future attempts at relationships.

You may be right: playing down your caring nature to a helper syndrome may be too simple. Still you should learn to say "no" from time to time. It would do you good.

I don't care if you trust the reason why I went to my funeral. Think of it whatever you want. We're even, because I don't believe you either. The pathology was understaffed in that week, but I have no doubt that Mike would have let you take the day off had you asked him to. And as for not liking funerals: Of course you would not. No one likes funerals. That's not the kind of occasion where you are expected to enjoy yourself. Additionally I don't believe that the others did not notice your absence. I think it was not wise of you to stay away. It looked suspicious.

About work not being the most important thing in life: I disagree in most cases. I never get sick and I don't need a shoulder to lean on. Since I am tall, I find it uncomfortable to have to lean down onto someone else's level. I don't feel the need to hold somebody's hand, since I am not fond of physical touch. And work does keep one warm: work brings you money, money pays the bills, amongst other things the ones for heating – hence you'll be warm.

It's not true that I never listen to anyone else. Sometimes I do listen; it's just that most things people say are useless. But I do take some advice of certain people into consideration. Talking to people who have different opinions than oneself (especially if as valuable as mine) is important. How else would you learn something new? I don't think we're that different after all. We share the same interests: dead bodies, murder, science, me, … In case you did not get it: The last one was not meant to be taken seriously.

I guess you mean when saying I would jump off Big Ben, you mean I would jump off the Elizabeth Tower (or Clock Tower, as it was known until 2012). "Big Ben" is only the nickname of the Great Bell, but commonly mistaken for being the whole tower.

Mrs Hudson wants you to go on a date with her nephew Bill?! I sincerely hope that you have turned him down, because he is definitely not the right man for you. He took over his uncle's business. What was Mrs Hudson thinking?! Living alone in Baker Street does not go well with her. Although… maybe I should not have mentioned that he is a criminal… that might make him interesting for you. Just joking. Please, stay away from him. He really is no good. Mrs Hudson is turning a blind side on his criminal activities, because he is family, but still I can't believe she wanted you to date him. Hopefully you told her "no." If not, don't meet him again, and if he starts to act suspicious let me know asap.

On the contrary: I understand that you are a single woman with not much social life and hence have a very strong connection to your cat. As you know cats are very stubborn animals that want to be left alone when sick or injured. I am sure Toby just got the flue, maybe needs some antibiotics and then he'll be fine again. As you have said, he is still a young feline and has been healthy so far. The fact that he is hiding under the bed and has no appetite is supporting my theory about the flue. Should your veterinarian turn out to be useless, I have put some names and addresses of some good ones on the next page. Just tell them you know (knew, of course) me. They will not charge you. I may not have a pet now, but I my parents used to own a dog. And since Mycroft was not very fond of it (he never had much sympathy for any living creature except himself), it became kind of my dog. Henceforth I can see how one becomes accustomed to the presence of a pet.

Sherlock


End file.
